Creative Writing

The tall, fluid height of the body.Large eyes, bright smile, straight teeth.And a twinkle that said, “yes,” to me.The addiction to being beloved and worthy.

Pain

The metal clang of iron doors to hearts.The soft slash of words that shredded hope.And the quiet dissociation afterwards,laying on the sofa, still and staring.

Resurrection

Celine Dion’s song, “Because You Loved Me” playingUninvited, the emotions suddenly arise from the dead.“We are you,” and it’s okay to be not enough at times.Remember who you were, the light and the dark.

Wholeness

Need not be assembled from perfect parts of me,With all the broken pieces hidden away,leaving holes in the fabric of the soul.Just stand in the presence of yourself and be.

Have you heard of the poet, David Whyte? Some poets write things that muddy the mind, but David's poems illuminate the soul. I recommend his beautiful poems to you and hope that you will enjoy them and use them for your own enlightenment.

I can't decide on a favorite. They are all like gems, glittering in the dark, each filled with its own living light. He must have an amazing soul. Here is a link to samples of his poetry:

Good poetry begins withthe lightest touch,a breeze arriving from nowhere,a whispered healing arrival,a word in your ear,a settling into things,then like a hand in the darkit arrests the whole body,steeling you for revelation.In the silence that followsa great lineyou can feel Lazarusdeep insideeven the laziest, most deathly afraidpart of you,lift up his hands and walk toward the light.

This poem moved me deeply as well. I felt the poem knocking at the door of a part of me that seldom receives visitors. Here is a poem, alive and breathing, pushing past our poised facades, and asking to see, instead, the vulnerable, real, hidden part of being human. By wanting to know, David Whyte seems to invite us to be open to an authentic connection and conversation. Isn't that a more satisfying and fulfilling way to relate to ourselves and others?

SELF PORTRAIT

It doesn't interest me if there is one Godor many gods.I want to know if you belong or feelabandoned.If you know despair or can see it in others.I want to knowif you are prepared to live in the worldwith its harsh needto change you. If you can look backwith firm eyessaying this is where I stand. I want to knowif you knowhow to melt into that fierce heat of livingfalling towardthe center of your longing. I want to knowif you are willingto live, day by day, with the consequence of loveand the bitterunwanted passion of your sure defeat.

Chipped Teacups

Middle-aged, with curly, graying hair,she enters my practice, because of her despair.Layers of fat beneath her floral dress.Her eyes cast a shadow on all they rest.

“I was never perfect enough for my mother.”“Last night I dreamed I was fighting a tiger.”“I refuse to talk to my husband, so we use notes.”“There were too many words on the one he wrote.”

I listen and think while seated at my desk,pondering on patterns, weighing what is best.My mind dissects, and my heart connects.Busily analyzing, as she reflects.

I knowher mother—so many such mothers…and the unfulfilled need to be good-enough daughters.The belief that perfection could earn true love,and contains the power to prevent its loss.

A vision dawns of a chipped teacup lit by light,sitting on a windowsill, simple and white.“Even a chipped China cup is perfect,if it’s loved perfectly,” words interject.

For, love leads to perfection—this is the order.The yearning and earning of a child can’t change a mother,who searches for love she lacked from another,neglecting those she holds, leaving souls to suffer.

On a rainy afternoon, her husband came.Balding, bent, black umbrella as a cane.Like J. Alfred Prufrock, obsequious and mild.A soft voice, with sad eyes, even when he smiled.

“Before my wife became ill, she asked me not to leave.Alone, in her depression, abandoned to her grief.”“I promised that I wouldn’t, and I will stay.”“I don’t care how long it takes, for her to find her way.”

“I removed dirty dishes from the dishwasher.”“I thought they were clean, so I cleared them for her”“Now, she refuses to speak with me.” “I’ll write shorter notes, if that’s what she wants to see.”

The connection between love and perfection,gave him the strength to endure denigration.The chipped teacup became my symbol—of wholeness and healing from love’s role.

Years later, when writing for a conference,I remembered the words, my youth, and innocence.“Even a chipped China cup is perfect, if it’s loved perfectly.”A sudden shift--of meaning made for me.

My heart filled with what had been given,to the chipped China cup that I had been,bathed in sunshine, on the windowsill,unaware of the light that loved me still.

At the Gate

Together, inside our walled garden, by the red gate.December in Taipei, Taiwan. Mimosa, courtyards, and luggage.The air is always warm. The sunset casts bronze light and black shadows.My grandmother and I stand close, but talk of parting.

She is fifty and steps gingerly, on half-bound feet.I am seven and skip along, braids bound by red string. I am leaving for America soon,to reunite with my father there.

I have no choice but to go. Am already aching for my return—to see her wrinkled face again,and hold her vein-filled hands in mine.

“Grandma, it will be a long time before my return.You may die, before I can come back.”“Don’t worry. Street vendors often come, selling ‘Long Life Pills’. I will live to a hundred and wait here for you.”

“That’s good. Remember to buy them. It will take me a long time to grow up. I promise I will come back to you.Don’t forget me. I will always remember you.”

At the last moment, I refuse to get on the plane. I wriggle away and run towards her.“Grandma! Grandma! Help me!” I call.I am not going! This is my choice!

My mother pulls me back to the plane,and I resist with all my strength. She slaps me once. The pain freezes me, forever.

Grandmother looks on, unblinking,standing behind a barrier made of rope.Her face and arms hang down.Tears and tears at the gate.

photograph of a picture of the "The Ballerina"watercolor by Alice W. Lee (1979)

The Ballerina

16 years old, 8½ by 11 paper, a 14-pan watercolor set,and a pin-point of hair on a small brush.Dab, dad, dab, dad, David, dab, dad, David…Painting L’air Du Temp’s ad of a ballerina—a floating angel of swirling vibrant color.Light from a window shines on her black hair,illuminating her, as she dances in a dungeon dark space.

Hyper-focusing, blending light and dark,texturing rubber cement on the shadowed walls.Blinking back the tears, keeping my lips firm.Everything must be perfect—her face and dress.Creating something beautiful out of water and despair,because it would be useless to question why.“Why did you stop him from seeing me?”

Why did you stand like a guard at the front doorand send him away, as he smiled his poor smile?What is so wrong with a boy who calls,to argue about how to cook an egg,to share how his mother had died,then writes of his mission in Hong Kong,and comes to visit, after being gone so long.

I had been alone all my life, until he came.Why do you hate his name?And I…I stood silent and afraid.I should have said, “You are a monster. I hate you.” I should have pushed you aside and opened the door.I should have cried to him, “Please forgive us. I’m so sorry.”Instead, I paint, with blinding focus and quiet intensity.

Walking by, he smirks, “You’ve never looked happier.”If I were a python, I would wrap myself around himand squeeze, until every bone cracks beneath my coils.Like the Joker, I could put a blade in his mouthand show him how my happiness feels.I return to the painting and letthe work transform my hatred and regret.

The ballerina shone like the Orion nebula.When it was done, I gave it to him, as if to say,“I forgive you for being who you are.”His sister saw it, later, hanging above his bed,and asked me to give it to her, and I said, “No.”He wrapped my forgiveness in brown paper for her sake.Then—along with the part of me that paints—it was gone.

Alice W. Lee

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